Scrapbook Album
by Lira is a Girl's Name
Summary: A series of drabbles chronicling various peeks into Hanna and Gallahad's shared life, presented in the form of a scrapbook. Mostly cute, fluffy scenes where the romance is subtle to ignorable, but with some smuttier bits. Will be 100 parts. Hanna/Zombie.
1. After All These Years

AN: I'm already doing the 100 Themes off of ygallery once, going all-out and turning it into a novel-length story with continuity. But a friend on ygal is also doing the themes, and I pretty much agreed to be her bitch and write a drabble for every picture that she drew. That's what this is. And since these are like little snapshots of Hanna and Zombie's life, I have decided to put it forward as a sort of scrapbook. For the most part, I guess these could happen along the same timeline. To start, I bring you oldman!Hanna. And as usual, Hanna is Not a Boy's Name belongs to the marvelous Tessa Stone, I am making no money and mean no offense.

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SCRAPBOOK ALBUM

-by: Lira-

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.PAGE 001. - "Love" - .After All These Years.

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Hanna had never been so interested in material things, but Gallahad detected, over the years, that having a place for himself was important to the redhead. Just a little nook, somewhere he could packrat his arcane memorabilia and hide away in, now that he was retired. Oh, Hanna didn't actually know the meaning of the word retired, but at least age slowed him down a little, and he didn't officially accept cases.

The years had also instilled in Hanna a vague understanding of the word "relax." On one of his enthusiastic impulses, Hanna had gotten them a pair of mismatched antique rocking chairs, complete with green and orange plaid cushions for Gallahad, black and white check with splatters of neon color for Hanna. Hanna's taste had not aged with time. The rocking chairs were installed on their front porch of the dumpy little cottage they had together, out near where Ples' house used to be. Hanna liked all the rustic wood furnishings, and the fact that he could see the wooden beams in the cramped little attic. Gallahad wished that he'd stop climbing up there, lest he fracture something that wouldn't let itself be put back with runes.

Gallahad and Hanna would spend their evenings on the rocking chairs, the balmy warmth of early summer draped over everything and the light of fireflies cutting the settling gloom. Hanna would start out rocking energetically, but his legs always became tired and he'd relax into a slow rhythm which Gallahad would happily match. And when the last light drained from the sky, and the light pollution from the city was behind them and negligible, Gallahad would help Hanna from his chair and turn to go inside, taking a quick moment to pull the man close.

Hanna never let him down, not in more than half a century. The number of times Hanna had nearly died was matched only by the number of times Gallahad had tried to save him, protect him, patch him back together when necessary. And it absolutely meant the world when Hanna told him he loved him, in a voice more reserved than Hanna ever was, the loaded emotion brimming over to Gallahad's well-trained ear.

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	2. Center of His Universe

AN: I'm not actually big on writing Hanna/Zombie porn, but this was kind of necessary. Hanna is Not a Boy's Name belongs to the marvelous Tessa Stone. No profit is being made and no offense is meant.

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SCRAPBOOK ALBUM

-by: Lira-

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.PAGE 002. - "Orgasm/Comeshot" - .Center of His Universe.

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It's so easy with Hadrian, Hanna sometimes has to check that he isn't alone, that he hasn't somehow mastered the ability to manifest his will to finally satisfy these tight, needy feelings clutching at his guts. The cool touch is the best reassurance. He doesn't have to ask to be helped undress, to have his shaky fingers steadied as they raise the hem of his shirt, falteringly unbutton the front of Antony's. Familiar motions. They mirror each other, every motion to ease off a garment accompanied by those lingering touches, reality firming all around them but leaving Hanna safe in a warm bubble of want.

Naked doesn't feel naked, and the cool air doesn't make Hanna shiver because Beauregard's hands are colder, his entire naked body cool and smooth and unexpectedly soft, pliant when Hanna reaches back for him when he is turned around. He can feel Carlton's broad chest flat against his back, imagines he can even feel the raised stitches rubbing oh so lightly against his sensitized skin. Fingers digging into his hip are a welcome pressure, grounding him further in the now. Hanna is already hard, of course, has been hard since before the first button came undone.

Lenard is sure in his every motion, holding Hanna exactly so. Hanna knows his mouth has sagged open, tongue extending slightly to curl around the fingers offered to him. He doesn't know what Nicholas tastes like, but he imagines he can feel the ridges of his fingerprints on his tongue, taste the whorls like they are flavors, unique only to the digits sliding comfortably into his mouth. It is at that point that he touches himself, finally reaching the hand not clutching Quentin to his cock. His own touch is almost electric then, his hand so much warmer than he is expecting. He wishes a little that it was those cold fingers currently stroking the inside of his mouth, but he will not relinquish them. He is already stroking; he begins to stroke faster.

Hanna can name all of the points of contact just then, the hands, the cool skin, the steady presence, all of it. One of the things he likes best is the unshakable calm, how he can shatter apart to pieces in how every brush of skin on skin feels like shivery static, like pure energy jumping between them as sparks between jumper cables, and still be grounded in something he can trust without question. This is safe. This is like coming home. This is making his balls ache unbearably with the need to come and the conjoined need not to let it be over so soon. Reagan is so quiet, always so much of a presence without a single word, but Hanna can imagine things far dirtier than his undead lover would ever think to say to him unprompted.

It isn't the dirty things that make him come, though. It's the entire experience, the hand digging tighter into him, the sense of possession that he can't quite explain and maybe doesn't even want to. It is more overwhelming than when he is by himself, by far, by so many measures it is beyond count. And Sheridan knows exactly how to bring him down from his high, the fingers sliding free of his mouth and the back of that hand grazing gently down his cheek. Hanna is not the sort who eschews physical contact after orgasm. He is just as cuddly as ever, having only the energy to turn himself within that embrace, press his face to the cool, firm chest of the current center of his universe.

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	3. Welcome Distractions

AN: Even though these themes are supposed to be sexual, Typing decided to creatively interpret them. I wholly approved of this. I'd rather write Hanna being an adorable nerd, really. And Hanna is Not a Boy's Name belongs to the marvelous Tessa Stone. No profit is being made and no offense is meant.

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SCRAPBOOK ALBUM

-by: Lira-

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.PAGE 003. - "Finger" - .Welcome Distractions.

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There were some things Hanna liked to be distracted during. The redhead was too prone to throwing himself headfirst into his endeavors, to the point where Gallahad dimly wondered how Hanna had survived previously. He never quite thought of it as a personal victory, the fact that his presence meant Hanna was safer, better fed, maybe even a little more content with his chosen lot in life. He couldn't not do these things. When he could not even offer his own name, Hanna was a volatile certainty.

Hanna liked being distracted when they had difficult cases and Hanna was just wrecking himself over some aspect of the puzzle. Beneath all the cheery manic energy, Hanna took things personally, and if he couldn't figure out how to help, it was personal. Hanna liked being distracted when the reality of his – their – life situation came crashing in. Hanna even sometimes liked being distracted when he was losing at pokemon, whenever he tried to take his team of trapinches to the battle frontier for yet another schooling.

But when they finally got the internet connection working – leeching shamelessly off of someone on another floor – Gallahad found that Hanna did not like being distracted when he was raiding. Gallahad could see the same rare tension to Hanna's frame as when Hanna just needed a break from the world. The same determined expression, although in retrospect it was without the edge of fragility, that nuance that let him, if no one else, guess where danger lay. Perhaps he was still rusty, still not human enough in his second chance. Sometimes fraying nerves could simply be a human degradation.

"Hanna..." he murmured, leaning close behind the redhead. For all that he still received commentary on his perfect deadpan tone, Gallahad had learned this voice with care, the modulated voice that would undo Hanna.

He believed someone else might dub it "sultry," but he felt a disconnect from the word. It didn't matter. What mattered was the little tremble Hanna would give at the sound, the nigh-indiscernible sign that a distraction was now in progress. Any further tension was wholly deliberate, Gallahad learning by happy trial and error what would empty Hanna's mind of all those unhappy thoughts, for just a while.

"Raid..." Hanna muttered, the button-mashing and clicking continuing. "Heals..." He jerked one hand away from the keyboard long enough to raise the middle finger high. "Fuck off..."

Being cursed at only registered as proof that this must just not be one of those things Hanna wanted distraction from. But the persisting tense lines, the way Hanna hunched his shoulders and ducked down right before the laptop's screen, all of the muscular agony spoke that perhaps a distraction might be necessary later. Gallahad had already undone each and every button on his shirt, having no need to disguise his dead-ness from Hanna, and merely allowed himself to drift into Hanna's personal space, just behind him at the computer. He could see Hanna relax marginally just at the cool presence, and he could see Hanna's character flaring with computerized magic over Hanna's shoulder.

Gallahad would stage a nice back massage after the raid was over, to drain out the rest of that unhealthy tautness.

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	4. The Best Vacation Ever

AN: I'm probably going to do more of these from Zombie's POV than from Hanna's, and when I do I tend to favor using "Gallahad" in the narrative. But here is some more Hanna POV, complete with the trademark name-changing. And Hanna is Not a Boy's Name belongs to the marvelous Tessa Stone. No profit is being made and no offense is meant.

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SCRAPBOOK ALBUM

-by: Lira-

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.PAGE 004. - "Inflation" - .The Best Vacation Ever.

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Hanna couldn't really afford vacations. He never managed to cram them into his budget, even when he was practically ripping his hair out and Jeffries was checking all of his numbers on their lists of expenses because there just had to be a few pennies somewhere that they could wring out for this. And so maybe it wasn't a vacation, being called down to a rocky expanse of beach where the water was slate gray and unappealing and the sky was washed-out blue even with scarcely any clouds.

But Hanna could make light of anything, and they had managed to find a long sandy finger of beach, where the waves crashed gently on the shore and Hanna could see the green in the water, like kelp. The mermaids were supposed to come near shore at twilight, when the sun was just almost set and the will-o-the-wisps began sparking into existence over the water. Plenty of time for a day at the beach first!

Plus Hanna thought Erickson looked smashing in his brand new orange swim trunks.

Kenneth was inflating their beach ball slowly, the hollow-cheeked expression he had to repeatedly make striking Hanna as undeniably funny. The game of volleyball that followed might have been sorry by some people's standards, but Hanna didn't mind that the ball never seemed to go where he aimed it. He didn't care if there was no net, or maybe they were doing it wrong, or if the game was interrupted by interludes where he'd dash through the shallow waves when the ball fell in the water. The water was freezing, but it was great.

It was the best vacation Hanna had ever had, even if the matron of the mermaid colony tried to drown him – twice! – later that evening, and Nathaniel had to dig him out of a nest of kelp and knock the water from his lungs.

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	5. A Lesson In Relaxing

AN: Yet more adorable fucking fluff. My Zombie is kind of stupid devoted to Hanna, and that isn't likely to change any time soon. Anyway, Hanna is Not a Boy's Name belongs to the marvelous Tessa Stone. No profit is being made and no offense is meant.

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SCRAPBOOK ALBUM

-by: Lira-

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.PAGE 005. - "Shounen-ai/Softcore" - .A Lesson In Relaxing.

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One of the things Gallahad had to get used to, with Hanna, was that Hanna seemed to favor physical contact from him over gestures from their other friends. Human contact of any shade was something he'd been without for such a long time. It warmed him somewhere, when otherwise heat leeched always out of his cold body, that he could do something this normal, provide comfort with a touch.

Gallahad didn't realize right away that his cool touch was part of the appeal, that Hanna liked the little shivers from when Gallahad hadn't noticed how icy-cold his fingers had gone. But Gallahad's thinking was adaptable, still agile, computing that Hanna's happiness could be earned through his stiff cuddles. Through repetition, so many brushes of fingers across the backs of Hanna's hands, the small of Hanna's back where Hanna could still feel the touches through his shirts, slipping softly through the thick red hair atop Hanna's head, a more natural manner came to him. Even as Gallahad's somewhat calculated affection peeled the stress right off of Hanna, he found himself relaxing more than he'd known how.

Hanna taught him, through nothing more than reaction, how to touch a person like they were precious, how to convey a volume of emotion through the fingertips. How to express the feelings that never made it into his voice, no matter how long he spoke or on what topics. Hanna made him enjoy sprawling on the floor in Hanna's – their? – dingy apartment, Hanna's narrow back pressed flush up against Gallahad's chest. Just the pose was a certainty, one of Gallahad's arms wrapping across Hanna's chest choosing to rest possessively on Hanna's hip. Whatever it did for Hanna, it was also a reassurance to him that Hanna was in one piece, safe.

Hanna let him know, perhaps without ever meaning to, that if he dragged one hand up along Hanna's chest, so that the hem of Hanna's shirt rode up and he could glance down to find a pleasing stretch of bare skin visible, Hanna would only giggle. Hanna always expected the best, fondness and affection and if you struck at him he'd take it heart-deep in the chest. Gallahad could place his hand there, over Hanna's still-beating heart, and Hanna wouldn't even notice that he was enjoying the vibrations of it. That he liked knowing how vibrantly alive Hanna was, through every touch they exchanged, and if his cool fingers disguised that reassurance with a bit of childish tickling, Hanna only giggled louder and squirmed back against him.

Even Hanna hardly ever saw the contented expressions Gallahad would make then, fingers trailing gently to and fro to give Hanna goosebumps, keeping Hanna within his carefully fortified embrace.

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End file.
